


baby i'm the whole damn meal

by nikkiRA



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Image, Bottom Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri's Huge Royal Cock, Explicit Sexual Content, Fire Emblem Kink Meme, M/M, Riding, Weight Gain, brief exploration of sylvain's fucked up mental state and ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiRA/pseuds/nikkiRA
Summary: Goddess, he said the most embarrassing fucking things. Sylvain kept every sappy word Dimitri ever said to him next to his heart, and on days when he can’t close his eyes without seeing Bernadetta von Varley’s lifeless eyes, or when every unknown noise is an enemy come to cut him down, or when every flash of red he sees sends him hurtling down a well -- on those days he repeats Dimitri’s words to himself over and over until he starts to believe them.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767034
Comments: 34
Kudos: 208
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	baby i'm the whole damn meal

**Author's Note:**

> there's so many fills for this prompt because it's a GREAT prompt so here i am, adding another one. thank you to this [ anon with their huge brain ](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=5852) i love u
> 
> this was supposed to be a quick!! fill!! and now here we are, almost 6k later!! i just wanted to write some porn!!
> 
> title is from lizzo alkjsdalkdjal blame my best friend they enabled me

It takes a while before Sylvain feels safe enough to skip training. 

Don't get him wrong, it's not that he's super into it, or anything. He isn't like Felix, who only feels complete with a sword in his hand, or Ingrid, still following her own ideals. Sylvain has only ever trained because he _had_ to. Before the war he'd have to be dragged to the training grounds by his ear - and he often was - but something about war and the ever present fear that he was going to be attacked while in the middle of eating his porridge kicked his training into high gear. Fighting like you're going to die is only useful when you're good at fighting. 

The war ended, as most wars eventually do, and Sylvain went to Fhirdiad for the coronation, and then he fucked around for a couple months to avoid going home, and then one night he got drunk and kissed the King of the United Kingdom of Faerghus full on the mouth and then fled before Dimitri could, like, have him arrested, or something. Dimitri did not have him arrested (although Felix had suggested it as a solid Plan B); he followed him to Gautier territory, and he smiled softly, and he kissed him even softer, and then he returned to the Capital with the promise that the next time they saw each other, they would talk about it. 

And then the nightmares started to get worse. 

Look, he's never been a stranger to nightmares. For as long as he could remember he's had them, usually centered around Miklan and a bottom of a well, or a particularly nasty one dreamed up by his subconscious where Miklan cuts him open to steal the Crest from his blood. He's used to nightmares. But they remind him of everything (and every _one_ ) he's lost, and they remind him of what it's like to sleep on the floor of a tent with his best friend beside him, fingers clenched so tightly around his lance that Felix had to pry them off in the morning, and they remind him of what it's like to stab a girl he used to go to school with in the gut, to have her blood splash into his mouth while he remember the wonderful stories she used to write, and he wakes up drenched in sweat and he trains. It is the only thing he knows how to do. 

But the world starts to mend, starts to stitch itself back together. Felix steps into his role as Duke, and Ingrid becomes a knight in His Majesty's service, and one day his father calls him into his office and tells him that the young are taking over, and he can take a hint. His mouth curls up and he looks unhappy about it, but the fact of the matter is that Sylvain is Margrave now.

Being busy helps. The list of things he has to do grows every day, just as the list of potential wives his father approves of does as well. He is back and forth between Gautier and Fraldarius and Fhirdiad so often he feels like he could find his way there with his eyes closed, but every day he feels, a little less, like he’s going to send the country into ruin, and eventually he’s able to make a decision without immediately having a panic attack. And between all of this, there is Dimitri; his king, his friend, his -- his something. They don’t talk about it, not really, but Dimitri smiles when he sees him and pulls him down empty hallways to kiss him senseless and for the first time Sylvain thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to destroy _everything_ he touches. 

And eventually, he stops training so hard. Eventually he sleeps with his lance under the bed, instead of clenched in his hand. Eventually he stops waking up at every bump and creak he hears, ready to fight. And he isn’t completely okay, but none of them are: the bags under Felix’s eyes get more pronounced, and Ingrid always jumps at loud noises, and sometimes Dedue will just stare into space for hours on end, and sometimes Dimitri wakes up screaming and doesn’t recognize Sylvain. Dedue and Felix watch Dimitri’s every move, always hypervigilant in case he relapses back to the man he was during the war, but Dedue discovers a tea that helps calm the voices that yell inside Dimitri’s head; Sylvain watches Dedue and Felix to make sure they aren’t running _themselves_ ragged, taking care of Dimitri, and he also watches Ingrid, and Ingrid watches him back, and somehow they all manage to wake up each day and face the world.

One day he is in Fhirdiad, half naked in the king’s bed, and Dimitri is looking over something incredibly dull like tax forms, and out of nowhere Sylvain tells him what he wants to do. Dimitri looks up and smiles at him, and Sylvain watches it spread across his face, and he thinks that the day he’s forced to give Dimitri up will be the day that kills him. Dimitri gets up and climbs back into bed with him, and they kiss until Sylvain is hard and aching and has completely forgotten what he had even said. But then Dimitri pulls back, fingers skimming over Sylvain’s thighs, and he says, “I couldn’t agree more.”

* * *

The months he spends in Sreng are hard. He had thought he’d felt the very worst of winter, but the cold he feels on the frozen desert seems like something else entirely. And he is only in the south -- he can’t imagine what it must be like, further north. He spends months among the different clans; he is met with distrust and suspicion everywhere, of course, and he knows that he will likely spend the rest of his life restoring and repairing any sort of relationship between the two countries, but it feels good, it feels _right,_ to be on his feet and making change. It shows that he deserved every time an arrow pierced his shoulder instead of his heart, every time a lance broke on his armor, every time one of his friends took a hit intended for him. That driving a lance through his brother’s heart hadn’t condemned him. That he could create just as much as he could destroy. 

He spends half a year in the southern part of Sreng, and although he trains or fights with a few of the people he meets, he finds himself eating far more than normal; he is constantly ploughed with food by grandmothers with bent backs or a mother with a fierce glare, and he comes to a mind blowing realization that he probably should have realized far earlier: that everything he had been taught had been a lie. He had fought real monsters during the war, and they had not looked like this. 

After six months he heads back to Fodlan; he had made decent progress with a few clan leaders, but only in the annexed part, and only a small number out of many. But he knows that it will be slow going, and he understands why. It will take years before he is able to build up trust, and years after that before he is able to reach his hand out to Northern Sreng. But he knows, now, that this is what he was supposed to do. This was why he survived each battle, even though he fought beside death each time. It was for this: for peace. For revolution. To right the wrongs of his father, and all that came before him. 

He goes home first, just for a short while, to check in on everything, to see how his father’s health is holding up, to ensure there are no major problems. His father is far skinnier and somehow even grumpier; the healers tell him that there isn’t really anything wrong, just an old bitter man (his words, admittedly, not theirs) coming up on the end of his life. He demands that Sylvain tell him everything that happened with Sreng, and Sylvain happily does, enjoying the way his father’s face gets redder and redder. Improving their relationship with Sreng will be a lifelong journey, he knows, but he’s glad that his father is at least able to see the start of Sylvain unravelling all his hard work. 

His mother is doing well, though, and she greets him warmly. Now that Sylvain is Margrave and his father is getting sicker his mother seems to be flourishing in a way she never had when he was a child, and even if he can’t completely forgive her for her complacency or the way she always turned away when Miklan hurt him, it is nice to come home to his mother’s hug, and his favourite meal, and the way she pinches his cheeks and --

“You must have enjoyed yourself, hm?” She says, winking at him. He looks at her in confusion, and she reaches out and _grabs his fucking stomach._ “This is definitely new.”

He takes a step away from her. “Mother!” He says, a couple octaves higher than usual, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his stomach. She just laughs, a sound he still isn’t used to hearing, and pats him on the cheek. She must have been quite beautiful when she was young, he thinks. He wonders how many of those lines on her face are from him, and how many are from his father, and how many are from his shithead, useless brother. 

He wants to set out for the capital as soon as possible -- his excuse is that he needs to fill Dimitri in on everything, which is true, but the real truth of the matter is Sylvain _misses_ him. After so long apart it feels like Sylvain might literally die if he doesn’t see him soon. The ache in his chest had been easier to ignore when he was up north and busy, but now that he is home he thinks the feeling might eat him whole. It is like a vital organ is missing; Sylvain had always thought that he didn’t really have a heart but he knows now that he does, and it _sucks,_ because he had the brilliant idea to give it to the King of Fodlan without any thought to the consequences. 

The problem, of course, is that his mother is right, and he doesn't really realize until he's standing naked in his room trying to pack.

His clothes don’t fit. 

The heavy furs he had worn in Sreng fit fine, but now that he is home and facing the rest of his wardrobe he realizes, with something that might be a little bit like panic, that nothing else does. He stands in front of his mirror, eyeing his body from different angles. He hadn’t _thought_ he’d gained that much weight. Some, sure, because it was freezing fucking cold up north and his training regimen had been virtually nonexistent, but it helped, in those temperatures, to have a bit extra. He hadn’t thought it had been _that_ much. But looking at himself now, he can see the way his stomach hangs over his waistline, the softness of his thighs, the way they chafe together; his shoulders had always been wide but now they turn into arms that are big from fat more than muscle, and all over his skin now are cellulite lines, marking all the places he’d changed. 

He turns away. He calls a tailor, pays her extra to discreetly take out his clothes, even though there is nothing discreet about his body now. She only smiles warmly at him, and he sees no judgement in her eyes, but he traces over the cellulite spread across his belly and sighs. 

Waiting for his updated wardrobe adds a few more days of delay, and by the time he sets out for Fhirdiad he is pent up and anxious. He thinks about nothing but Dimitri the whole way there, but what had started as excitement has turned into a feeling akin to dread. It had been so long; there had been infrequent letters, but they kept mostly to business, as Sylvain had spent much of the time travelling. Who knows what kind of things had happened that he didn’t know about. Dimitri could have met somebody. Or gotten married. Kings had to get married, which is something Sylvain logically knows even if he refuses to ever look at it head on, so he could be married. Oh, Goddess, Dimitri was definitely married. 

He takes a breath. He might be going a little overboard. 

Okay, Dimitri _probably_ wasn’t married, but he still could have met someone. And even if he hadn’t -- Sylvain looked different, was different. More than just his weight. He had a _beard_ now, not as thick as the one he’d had in Sreng but definitely more than he’d had before. What if Dimitri didn’t like the beard? Was he willing to shave it? Would he sacrifice his beard for love?

Goddess, he wished Ingrid was here so she could smack some sense into him. He’s so _pathetic._

* * *

He finds out that Felix is in town, too, when he arrives in Fhirdiad, which is nice, until his stupid brain starts thinking that maybe Felix is here to, say, celebrate Dimitri’s wedding. But there is no sign of celebrations nor any talk he overhears that mention anything as exciting as a royal wedding, so Sylvain feels confident in the fact that he’s just being a goddamn imbecile. 

He is directed to the training grounds, where he is told both Felix and Dimitri will likely be, which Sylvain should have guessed. He only briefly hesitates as he enters the training grounds, but he forces one foot in front of the other and tries to remember that even if Dimitri had lost interest, these were still two of his closest friends. 

“You know, I wasn’t expecting a party, or anything, but a little more fanfare for my arrival would have been nice,” he says, spreading his arms wide and shaking his head. Dimitri and Felix look up at the sound of his voice and just… look, for a moment. Sylvain watches their eyes travel down his body and then up to his beard, and there is a brief moment of tense silence. 

Then Felix says, “I didn’t know you could grow a beard.”

The tension breaks, and Sylvain laughs. “At least I can commit. Don’t think I don’t notice your facial hair is different each time I see you --” Sylvain is cut off by Felix lunging at him; he dodges out of the way and then turns back around to grab Felix around the waist from behind and lift him up, laughing at the way his legs flail in the air until a well aimed punch in his gut makes Sylvain drop him, wheezing. He gives a half hearted swipe at Felix.

“Didn’t have to hit me so hard, jackass,” he says good-naturedly. Felix shrugs. 

“More of you to hit.”

Sylvain tries to grab him again, but he’s laughing as he does it. It doesn’t feel like an indictment the way it had with his mother; with Felix it is more like an acknowledgement. 

It ends up with him on his back on the ground, Felix sitting on his chest, but that’s just because Felix is a cheater. Sylvain pinches him in the side and Felix springs off of him like an affronted cat, letting Sylvain stand up to finally greet Dimitri. 

Dimitri looks unfairly good. Sylvain really hopes he’s still interested, because it is taking every ounce of self-control he has not to drop to his knees right here, Felix be damned. He gives a slightly exaggerated bow and says, in as flirty a way as he can muster, “Your Majesty.”

Dimitri does not answer; he is looking at Sylvain, but it’s as if he’s lost in thought. Sylvain raises his eyebrows just as Dimitri seems to realize that he’s been spoken to, because he shakes his head slightly and says, “Sylvain. It is… very good to see you again.” He says this softly, and it sounds like he means it, but he still looks at Sylvain slightly -- odd. Unease settles in his stomach. 

“You didn’t get married, did you?” He is asking before he can stop himself. Dimitri blinks at him. 

“I -- no. Of course not.”

Felix looks between the two of them and then sighs heavily. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it. We should hear your report from Sreng.”

Of course, of course, politics first. Sylvain casts one more glance at Dimitri, who is still staring at him strangely. He is dying to ask what he’s thinking, but there _is_ quite a lot to talk about. 

Dimitri meets his eyes and smiles at him, and it settles Sylvain’s nerves a little bit. He smiles back. Felix audibly gags. 

It is so good to be home. 

* * *

It is hours before they can turn in. Sylvain has talked so much he thinks he might lose his voice, and everyone is yawning by the time Dimitri finally announces that they were all going to start losing focus if they didn’t head to bed soon. Sylvain loiters awkwardly as Dimitri talks to people, unsure whether he should go straight to Dimitri’s room, or if that’s being presumptuous, but Dimitri catches his eye and nods at him before _grinning,_ sharp and almost predatory and really _fucking_ hot, and Sylvain almost trips over his feet on his way up to the king’s room. 

Except when he gets into the room, a wave of self-consciousness washes over him again. He sits down on the bed and takes a few breaths, but it doesn’t really help. It’s just that Dimitri had barely looked at him during the meeting, which might not have been so noticeable if Sylvain hadn’t been talking so much. Even when Dimitri had been talking directly to him, he had made only brief eye contact before directing his gaze somewhere else. Perhaps Sylvain had been reading into the way Dimitri had looked at him after the meeting. Maybe he was going to tell Sylvain that he had finally come to his senses and realized that he deserved far better than Sylvain. Dimitri was a _king;_ what right did Sylvain have to think he could stand on his level?

He is in the middle of his fourth or so anxiety attack of the day when the door opens and Dimitri walks in. He takes one look at Sylvain’s face and immediately walks over, sitting on the bed beside him and taking Sylvain’s hands in his. 

“What’s wrong?”

Sylvain attempts to grin, laughs self-deprecatingly. “Nothing, nothing.” Dimitri gives him a very unamused look, and Sylvain sighs. “I missed a lot,” he says slowly. “And I -- changed a lot. And I was afraid that you might not… you know. Want to do this anymore.”

He looks up in time to see a fierce glint in Dimitri’s eye before he leans forward and kisses Sylvain hard on the mouth. It feels like warmth, like home; Sylvain practically melts into it, gripping Dimitri’s heavy cloak like it’s the only thing that’s stopping him from floating away. 

“The fact that you could think for one second that I would ever stop wanting you,” Dimitri says breathlessly against his lips. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“You’ve barely even looked at me today,” Sylvain says, because that’s still eating at him. Dimitri pulls away and pushes Sylvain’s hair out of his face.

“Sylvain,” he says seriously. “I was afraid that if I looked at you for too long I would bend you over the nearest surface and take you on the spot.”

Sylvain’s dick twitches. “Oh,” he says, weakly. “So you… still find me attractive, then.”

Dimitri chuckles, fingers stroking down Sylvain’s cheek. “More than ever.” He leans in and kisses Sylvain again, hand tracing down Sylvain’s back and gripping the outside of his thigh. “I couldn’t look away from you,” he says, mouth moving down to kiss along Sylvain’s jaw. “Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been, waiting to get you alone?” He pulls at Sylvain’s shirt, hands slipping beneath it over his skin, and Sylvain must tense up slightly as Dimitri runs his hands over Sylvain’s stomach, because Dimitri pulls back to look him in the eye. 

“Please do not be ashamed of yourself,” he says seriously. He pulls Sylvain’s shirt off and pushes him back onto the bed, kissing down Sylvain’s body, hands groping at every inch of skin, nipping at his love handles and the bit of his stomach that hangs over his waistband. “Every part of you drives me wild.” He seals his lips over one of Sylvain’s nipples, tongue laving over it, and Sylvain hisses, fingers carding through Dimitri’s hair. 

Dimitri sits up and begins untying the strings of Sylvain’s pants. “I missed you,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain grabs him by the shirt, dragging him into a kiss. 

“I missed you,” he says into Dimitri’s mouth. “I was afraid you’d find someone while I was gone.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I never would,” he says between kisses. “I never _could.”_

“Never say never,” Sylvain says, only half joking. Dimitri bites down lightly on his lip.

“Never,” he says, and Sylvain kisses him again as he scrambles to get Dimitri naked. Dimitri strips off his shirt and struggles rather inelegantly out of his pants, which has Sylvain laughing, until Dimitri leans back over him and says, right in his ear, “I want you to ride me. Want to see every inch of you.” Sylvain nearly rips his pants in two in his eagerness to take them off, nodding his agreement as Dimitri drags his tongue along the cellulite stretching across Sylvain’s sides. Sylvain flails his arm around vaguely in the direction of the side table until he finds the handle to open the drawer, hissing slightly as Dimitri starts biting marks onto the soft, fleshy part of Sylvain’s arms. Sylvain is so hard that it’s starting to hurt, but so far Dimitri has paid no attention to his cock, focusing instead on the areas Sylvain had been most insecure about: the flab on his arms, his stomach, the softness of his thighs. Sylvain finally manages to grab the vial of oil -- not easy, since Dimitri is still on top of him -- and he pushes it into Dimitri’s hand impatiently. 

“Come on,” he says, only slightly desperately. “I’ve _missed_ you, save the foreplay for later.”

Dimitri chuckles softly. “I can’t help it,” he says. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day.”

“Not the response I was expecting, but I’ll take it.”

Dimitri finally looks up from where he had been biting the inside of Sylvain’s thigh, eyebrows knitting together. “Sylvain… you are so deeply, incredibly _sexy_ like this. I dearly hope that you will one day see that.”

This is surprising, not just because it is completely at odds with what Sylvain had been feeling but also because he doesn’t think he has ever, in the decades that he has known Dimitri, ever heard him refer to _anything_ as ‘sexy.’ Dimitri was more likely to use incredibly embarrassing words like _beautiful_ or _incandescent_ or, on one memorable occasion, _you shine brighter than the sun, dearest._ With anyone other than Dimitri it would have sounded ridiculous, but Dimitri was so endearingly earnest and genuine that it honestly worked. 

But this -- this was the first time Dimitri had ever called him _sexy._ It was likely the first time he’d even used the word, to be honest. That he would use it now, when Sylvain was hairier and heavier than he ever had been… warmth blooms in his chest, and he grabs Dimitri by the hair and drags him back in for a filthy kiss. 

Dimitri fingers him slowly and carefully, and after so long it feels _so good._ Dimitri’s fingers are thick and he is thorough to the point of teasing, until eventually Sylvain can’t take it and pushes him away and onto his back; Sylvain gets the oil, but before he uses it he leans down and licks up Dimitri’s cock, taking the head in his mouth. Dimitri moans, low in his throat as Sylvain pushes down and takes him deeper. It’s been too long since Sylvain has had his king’s dick in his mouth, and he flicks his eyes up to see Dimitri flushed red. Dimitri looks down and makes eye contact with Sylvain, and then he lifts his hand, tracing down Sylvain’s cheekbones before he pushes his thumb in beside his cock in Sylvain’s mouth. His lips stretch and he rocks his hips down against the bed, desperate for friction. Dimitri’s hand tangles in Sylvain’s hair and he yanks him back, off his cock. He rubs his thumb over Sylvain’s lips, smearing spit and precum, and then says, “Get on top of me.”

Sylvain spills oil onto Dimitri’s dick and grins at him. “Is that a direct order from my king?”

Dimitri answers this by grabbing Sylvain’s hips, fingers biting bruises into his skin as Sylvain is manhandled. Being tossed around and moved about by Dimitri always made Sylvain’s stomach clench in extreme arousal, and he can’t help the broken whine that escapes his throat as he is positioned above Dimitri’s cock. 

“Look at you,” Dimitri says in an awestruck voice. Sylvain sinks down slowly, feeling the stretch and the burn as Dimitri fills him. Hands trace down his thighs and when he opens his eyes he sees on Dimitri’s face an expression of such reverence that he almost _cries_ from it. He doesn’t deserve to have anyone look at him like that, least of all Dimitri. Dimitri runs his hands back up Sylvain’s thighs and grabs a handful of the skin around his stomach, eyes glazed over as Sylvain sinks deeper onto his cock. 

Dimitri waits and lets him adjust, hands continuing to touch and squeeze every part of Sylvain’s body he can reach. Sylvain sinks down completely and lets out a breath, laughing slightly. “Every time we’re apart I think, his dick probably isn’t as big as I’m remembering.” He rolls his hips. “And every time I realize no, it is.”

Dimitri’s fingers bite into Sylvain’s hips, and he realizes with extreme pleasure that he’ll likely bruise there; it’s been so long since he’s carried proof of Dimitri’s affection on his skin, where he can see it, can trace over it. As long as the bruises remain, it means Dimitri still wants him. 

“There is no need to be dramatic,” Dimitri says, because the only thing bigger than his cock is his modesty. Sylvain shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue, because there are _way_ more important things to focus on, like how Dimitri’s eye is screwed shut and the way he’s biting his lip, and the way he always jerks his hips just the tiniest bit to drive even deeper into Sylvain, even though he had wanted Sylvain to set the pace. Sylvain leans down and kisses him, thigh muscles flexing and stomach doing something that Sylvain cannot realistically call anything except _jiggling._ He might feel ashamed of it, except Dimitri’s face is so fucking red and he’s driving up to meet Sylvain each time, now, and Sylvain is so _delightfully_ full. He leans forward, hands on either side of Dimitri’s head as he angles himself differently, and he can’t help the cry that spills from his lips as Dimitri’s cock fills him impossibly deeper, hitting him in just the right spot so that Sylvain thinks he might actually die from pleasure. 

One of Dimitri’s hands wraps around Sylvain’s cock, and he half sobs as he continues to ride his king, a steady rhythm of down onto his cock and then up into his hand. He drops his head, pushing his forehead against Dimitri’s and listening to the way Dimitri chants his name, _Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain._ Dimitri is so strong beneath him; Sylvain can feel it in the arms that wrap snugly around him, and the way Dimitri’s thighs flex as he plants his feet more securely, and the hard lines of his stomach. It’s a stark contrast to Sylvain -- the muscles that developed over years of war are still there, but he is soft where Dimitri is hard, his edges curved and rounded out while Dimitri’s remain prominent. Sylvain wonders what they look like, what a match they make. He wonders if an outsider would see the excess skin around his stomach, if they would see the way his thighs shake or if they could see the muscles underneath, honed from years of horseback riding. What would they see, if they looked at him? Would they see someone worthy of their king?

Sylvain finds he doesn’t care. The only opinion he cares about is Dimitri’s. 

Dimitri drags his thumb along the underside of Sylvain’s cock before continuing down, fingers skimming lightly over his balls, and Sylvain moans, thighs burning. Dimitri moves his hand over Sylvain’s ass, smoothing over his thighs before he reaches down to where they’re joined, finger rubbing against Sylvain’s hole even as he continues to fuck into him, and Sylvain almost screams, and then he comes. 

Dimitri doesn’t even wait for Sylvain’s orgasm to pass before he wraps his arms completely around him and drives his hips up at a relentless pace. Sylvain lets his head drop onto Dimitri’s shoulder and listens to the way his breathing speeds up, and he bites down hard on the juncture between Dimitri’s neck and his collarbone, and Dimitri comes with a moan that is loud enough that Sylvain will consider them very lucky if nobody comes to check on the safety of their king. 

They stay like that for a few blissful moments, Sylvain’s head pillowed on Dimitri’s massive chest while Dimitri’s softening cock stays inside of him. Sylvain waits until their breathing has evened out and synced up before he moves, grimacing as he slides off of Dimitri’s cock. The feeling of being filled was something he loved; the stickiness between his legs was something else entirely. 

Dimitri grabs a cloth and Sylvain starts to clean himself up, but there is _so much_ that he has to grab another hand towel. He raises an unamused eyebrow at Dimitri. “Did you come at _all_ while I was gone? How many months worth of loads did you just blow into me?”

Dimitri winces. “Sylvain, really,” he says, because he can somehow both fuck Sylvain until he can’t remember how to form words _and_ get squirmy whenever Sylvain spoke frankly about sex. He was a walking contradiction, and Sylvain was in love with him. 

He collapses back down on the bed, resolving to just let the come seep out of him and apologize to the laundress later on. Dimitri turns down the torches around the room before crawling in beside Sylvain, pulling the covers over them before rubbing a hand down Sylvain’s back, grabbing at his ass, his stomach, his love handles, his thighs. 

“You’re really touchy today, Your Majesty,” Sylvain says. “Did you miss me that much?”

“Yes,” Dimitri says easily. “But it is more than that. I wasn’t lying, you know. Whatever the reasoning for your… new body,” Dimitri says delicately, and Sylvain barely resists the urge to snort, “I find I can’t quite stop myself from looking away. You are so irresistibly attractive, Sylvain. Some days I wish nothing more than to just stay in bed with you all day.”

“That sounds like a great idea, and I think we should do it immediately,” Sylvain says. Dimitri smiles and leans forward to kiss him. 

“I am very proud of you, you know,” Dimitri says softly. “For all that you have done, and all that you have accomplished. For beginning to sow peace.” His fingers trace over a scar on Sylvain’s chest, and Sylvain grabs his hands and presses his lips to Dimitri’s knuckles. “And I do mean it when I say that nothing could ever happen that would make me not want you.”

Sylvain considers this. “So you like the beard?”

“I like the beard.”

Sylvain takes his hand and drags it to his stomach. “What about my stomach? Do you like that?”

Dimitri moves closer, lips travelling up Sylvain’s neck and pressing kisses to his jaw. “I love your stomach,” he says. Sylvain moves his hand further down his body. 

“What about my thighs?” He asks, as Dimitri grabs and kneads the flesh. “I believe the youth call them _thunder thighs.”_

Dimitri chuckles. “Believe me when I say that I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life between them.”

Sylvain is getting hard again; Dimitri moves his hand from Sylvain’s thigh to his cock, lips leaving a mark on Sylvain’s neck that will be difficult to explain to Dimitri’s dusty old council members. 

“Let me show you,” Dimitri says, lips making their way down Sylvain’s body. “Let me worship you.”

Goddess, he said the most embarrassing fucking things. Sylvain kept every sappy word Dimitri ever said to him next to his heart, and on days when he can’t close his eyes without seeing Bernadetta von Varley’s lifeless eyes, or when every unknown noise is an enemy come to cut him down, or when every flash of red he sees sends him hurtling down a well -- on those days he repeats Dimitri’s words to himself over and over until he starts to believe them. 

Dimitri takes his cock into his mouth, and Sylvain sinks deeper into the pillows, sighing happily as he cards a hand through Dimitri’s hair. 

Finally home. 

**Author's Note:**

> twitter @felixfraldaddy
> 
> i know i kind of hand waved the sreng stuff but 1) i was really high when i was writing it and that was way above my wheelhouse and 2) i am not good at writing about politics esp considering there is so! little! information! about sreng! so i tried to make it both vague but also respectful because i literally just wanted to write some porn


End file.
